It was the matter of minutes for him to heal her cuts and bruises. Hayden broke a small branch off a tree in one of the old flower beds. He snapped it in half, then used his knife to smooth it down. Cutting a length from the end of his shirt he handed the bundle to Indris so he could splint Shar’s arm. She bit her lip between her teeth, staring into Indris’s eyes the entire time while holding Hayden’s hand in a white-knuckled grip. Shar gave a stuttering sob once it was over, then lay back on the stone.
“Your fighting day is over,” Indris said. He picked up her serill blade and sheathed it for her. Seeing Hayden was out of ammunition, Indris gave him the dozen or so bolts he had left for his storm-pistol. The old marksman’s face lit up as he reloaded his rifle.
“Indris?” Mari called out. She had walked to the edge of the turret to see the stairs below. Indris picked his way over the dead and unconscious bodies to join her. The stairs were spattered with gore and littered with bodies, limbs thrown wide to make haphazard shapes in leather, metal, and flesh. At the bottom of the stairs more huqdi waited, a greasy collection of thugs in mismatched armour, while more Imperalist soldiers arrived.
“Don’t these people ever run out of soldiers?” Indris asked.
“Well, yes, they do.” Mari smiled over her shoulder. It was a mildly grotesque thing with her swollen, bloodied lip, the scratches on her face and what looked like the beginning of a black eye of heroic proportions. “They just haven’t yet. I don’t think they’ve understood the invitation we’ve sent for them to go f—”
“Indris!” An echoing cry in a familiar voice from below
“Sweet Erebus, no!” Mari whispered. Indris froze.
Belamandris came to stand at the head of a group of grim looking Anlūki. The other soldiers made a path for him. The man appeared fresh, lamplight slick across his golden hair and the ruby scales of his armour. He rested a booted foot on the bottom stair, hand curled around Tragedy’s sheath.
“Indris, I know you’re up there.”
Indris could hear his friends muttering behind him. He gestured for them to remain calm, though it was about as far from how he felt as could be. He looked down the stairs and met Belamandris’s gaze over the carcass-strewn distance between them. Belamandris smiled, a little tug at the corners of his lips. “Come down, Indris. Only one more person needs to die today.”
“I appreciate the offer, but we’re quite fine up here.”
“Tell him to piss off,” Mari muttered.
“You tell him to piss off,” Indris said.
“I’ll tell him to piss off,” Shar offered as she joined them. The Seethe trouper leaned down the stairs and shouted, “Hey, Golden Boy. Piss off.” She looked at Indris and Mari with a smile. “There. It’s done.”
Indris and Mari stared at Shar in stunned silence.
“What?” she said as they both stared at her as she walked away. “My arm hurts.”
“That was… unexpected.” Mari grimaced. “I doubt Belam would’ve liked that much at all.”
“Really?” Indris said sarcastically.
“Is that your answer, Indris?” Belamandris asked. “Too many people have already died needlessly. Why prolong the inevitable? You’ll never make it to safety and the longer you resist, the more likely it is your friends will die.”
“You’d kill me, Belam?” Mari asked sadly.
“You? Never.” He clenched his fist. “Once this is over you can come home and help me guide father away from the madness that consumes him. But the future has no place for Indris. Come down, Indris, and let’s settle what we started in Amnon.”
“What in the Ancestor’s names is he talking about?” Mari asked.
“I’ve no idea,” Indris muttered. “I resisted the Jahirojin and walked away, letting your father and brother go. It was Thufan who betrayed them both, not me.”
“You’re in no condition to face my brother, Indris.”
Changeling murmured over his shoulder, a soothing balm on his nerves as she sluiced him with fresh energy. The aches and pains he had endured vanished, cuts and bruises on his hands fading away. Mari swore to herself as she watched days of healing happen in a matter of heartbeats. Indris clenched and unclenched his fists, turning his hands over, frowning where all the new wounds were almost gone.
“It seems I’m in a condition to meet your brother after all.”
“Did you…?”
“Me? No! Changeling does things for her own reasons as often as not.”
“You can’t fight him, Indris.” Mari jerked her head towards where their friends were gathered. Indris looked across and saw how ragged and worn they wore. “And we need to get them somewhere safe.”
“Is there such a place in Avānweh? My staying could buy the time you need to get our friends away.”
“You staying will get you killed,” she said flatly. “Your friends would never leave. And Belam is a better swordsman than you and has about, oh, a million friends down there to lend a hand.”
“A million?” Indris looked down and pantomimed a count. Mari elbowed him in the ribs, expression stern. “There aren’t a million people down there, Mari.”
“No. But there’re more than enough to put you down. And that I won’t have.”
“If we run, they’ll follow.” Indris shrugged. “Red work if we do, red work if we don’t.”
Belamandris had taken a few steps upward. Indris was about to respond by going to meet him when a large shadow swept overhead. The wind of its passage whipped his hair into his eyes. It was followed by another, then more. Gryphons! Then there was the crackle-and-snap of a wind-skiff as it turned towards the mountain. Indris peered into the growing evening gloom to see the blue and grey colours of the Family Näsiré flying from the stern.
The lead gryphon banked, as did the one immediately after, dropping to land near where Indris and Mari stood. The other gryphons circled above Belamandris’s soldiers. Even in the limited light Indris could see the gryphon riders had their bows out, guiding the well-trained mounts with their knees and voices.
Neva unbuckled herself from her high saddle and slid to the ground, pulling her goggles up and unwinding the taloub from around her lower face. She slung her longspear across her armoured shoulders, the blade shaped to be a metre-long, razor-like feather. She looked irritated.
“Fine bloody mess you two have made,” she said by way of hello to Indris and Mari. “Do you have any idea how many bodies are gathering flies in my city? I suppose I should be at least thankful you followed sende, and didn’t kill civilians.”
“We—” Indris began.
“Later,” Neva cut him off. Yago remained in the saddle of his own gryphon, though he did give them a cheeky wave. Indris and the others raised their hands in wan response, grimacing. Only Vahineh waved with any enthusiasm, her face lit with wonder as she stared at the gryphon. Ekko hurriedly held her hands still and allowed her, his expression fixed, to stroke his mane. Neva glared at them all, then gestured towards the wind-skiff that made its careful way over the stairs, then stopped close to the turret. A side panel opened and a long boarding bridge, roped off at both sides, crossed the distance. Neva nodded to the skiff. “All aboard.”
“Stop!” Belamandris yelled. He leaped up the stairs a few at a time until Neva held out her hand for him to stay. Belamandris slowed his progress to a walk. A second gesture from Neva and one of the gryphon riders fired a heavy-looking arrow that ricocheted from the stone a metre or so in front of Belamandris’s feet. The warrior-poet looked at Neva angrily. “You’ve no right to interfere in the business of the Great Houses!”
“Erebus fa Corajidin fa Belamandris, by the order of the Arbiter of the Change and the Sayf-Avānweh, you and your soldiers are ordered to disband and return at once to your lodgings.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Really?” Neva asked with raised eyebrows. “Just how many arrows can you and your friends dodge at one time? I’m betting… not nearly enough.”
More archers appeared at the rail of the skiff, short but powerful bows in their hands, arrows held to the string. The two squads of gryphon riders maintained their lazy circling, bows likewise evident.
“Now go, Belamandris, while my grandfather is still inclined to mercy.”
“You’ll regret this! My fight is sanctioned by the law!”
“There’s no doubt I’ll regret many things,” Neva replied. “But this won’t be one of them. Widowmaker indeed. Tell the innocent families of those warriors you killed, or maimed, about the law—the grudge—that guides you. I doubt it was ever intended to harm them. Perhaps our regrets should start there?”
It did not take long for the skiff to drop them in a secluded garden within a stones throw of the Eyrie. Neva and Yago landed their gryphons nearby. Silent in her fury, Neva said nothing as she dropped from her saddle and marched, stiff backed and white knuckled, to where her father, the rahns, and the others waited.
Stories were being told, excuses made, reasons given, heard, and refuted, as Indris washed the blood from his hands in an aged stone basin. Shar’s arm had been reset, the breaks fused with two slivers of gryphon bone he had taken from an old ornament. Even so, the injury still caused her pain. He had seen to Mari and Ekko’s wounds too, and now a weight of lethargy sat across his shoulders. He looked down, eyes half closed. Clouds of red marbled the water, spreading outward, becoming darker each time he dipped his gore-soaked instruments. Though Changeling had healed Indris’s wounds, the blood of others remained; soaked deep into the lines of his hands like the sins he tried to forget. He rubbed at old scars, pale roads on his tanned skin that tracked over the blue shadows of veined rivers and the corded muscles, which made hills and valleys on his skin.
There was a time when he had hoped his hands would build rather than destroy. He smiled to himself, inured to the clamour of voices around him, seeking peace in the memory of holding an ink brush. The feel of parchment under his hands while he designed new devices. Or the cool weight of a hammer, plane, chisel, wrench, or screwdriver that brought his designs from the page into reality. They were the tools he had loved best, yet his hands had been set to darker work for purposes he had once thought he understood.
He looked down at Changeling where she leaned against the moon- and lamp-streaked wall. She crooned, sensing his scrutiny and the darkness of his mood. It was not her fault. She, like he, had been built for a fell purpose. His hand, no other, had baptised her in the blood of carnage in much the same way the Sēq had done for him.
Regret was pointless. Everything he had done had led him to who and where he was now. What he did and the man he was now would set his feet on the path for what he was to become. All he could do was act with a thought to compassion, conscience, and consequences. To trust the living now would set his feet in the direction best for himself and the ones he loved.
Somewhere in the Eyrie, the leaden ticking of a clock was interrupted by a single basso chime. The Hour of the Phoenix. He glanced out the window at the deceptively still velvet darkness blanketing Avānweh, pinned by jewel-coloured chips in the patterns of streets and backlit waterfalls. Out there, obscured by the depths of night, warriors carried bitter weapons for purposes they, too, thought they understood.
A brooding, sullen weight grew over the city. He could feel it like oil on his skin. Somewhere out there, in the endless darkness of laneways and doorways and mountain passes, disentropy was being pooled like clouds before a hurricane. From the streets drifted the stench he had detected on the ahmsah, like the smell of pus after a scab has been ripped off an infected wound. And voices filled his head; the tinny whisper of conversations he did not want to hear yet could not escape from. His head pounded.
He glanced up at the mirror to see the reflection of those in the room. Hands gestured wildly. Faces were strained, ruddy in the subdued glow of lamps. It was their voices that grated on his nerves. Raucous and conflicting, the tumbled whole of the words making less sense than the sum of the parts. He gripped the edge of the basin, knuckles white.
“Would you all just shut up?” Indris’s quiet voice sliced across the room. He watched as heads snapped in his direction, expressions ranging from contrition to fury. He breathed deeply and slowly to calm his nerves, eyes drawn to a crescent of blood under his fingernail. “Screaming at each other isn’t going to change what’s happened.”
“They tried to kill my cousin!” Martūm joined in, ever the dutiful relative.
Bensaharēn shot Martūm a withering glance that cut off any further words from Martūm. The armoured Knight-General Maselane was at his side. Rosha had wasted little time in gathering her senior staff. Mauntro and the best of his already elite Tau-se waited in the corridor outside. There was no sign of Danyūn or his Ishahayans, though Indris doubted they would be far away.
“We need to respond!” Rosha snapped.
“You need to keep your tongue behind your teeth and listen,” Mari ground out. “You weren’t there! You’ve no idea what happened, so your opinion on what we could’ve done, or what we should do now, isn’t worth a lot.”
“How dare you?” Rosha seethed.
“Mari’s right,” Siamak said. “We do not know what else could have been done to prevent this.”
“The city is a killing field!” Nazarafine growled. “Though it is the Imperialists and the Federationists fighting, let us not fool ourselves. This is really the conflict between the Näsarat and the Erebus.”
“Are you blaming me?” Rosha’s voice was steely.
“For some of it you are to blame,” Ajo said with equanimity. “You were the one who somehow arranged for yourself to lead the Federationists. You were the one who broke the rules of sende by trying to have Corajidin assassinated.”
“Doesn’t matter who did what first,” Neva said, scratching her head, hair flat from where it had been covered by her helmet. Her cheeks were wind burned, pale circles around her eyes from where she had worn her goggles. Her armoured flying leathers creaked as she moved. “Thankfully civilian losses have been avoided, but if people’s blood rises any more, it’ll become a free-for-all. You all need to leave Avānweh tonight, before innocent people are hurt.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Rosha growled.
“Yes,” Ajo countered, “you will. As Arbiter of the Change and the Sayf-Avānweh, I demand you leave my city as soon as possible. All of you. Your presence is a liability.”
“But you’ve cleared Belamandris and his soldiers from the streets.” Rosha protested.
“They weren’t the only ones fighting!” Ajo shouted. He pointed at Indris. “He and his friends turned my streets into a charnel house! I’ll not stand for any more threats to the Change. You’re done here, the lot of you.”
“Mari is a warrior-poet,” Bensaharēn said tranquilly, “and one of the best I have ever trained. Indris is a daimahjin and former Sēq General. Their friends are likewise accomplished. What should they have done, Ajo? Died pointlessly so Corajidin could have Vahineh as a prize? Perhaps we all need to see reason, neh?”
“And yet, there’s little we can do here with what we have.” Maselane said as he scratched the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. “The majority of the Phoenix Army is still en route from Avānweh to Narsis. We’ve a single company of the Lion Guard here, as well as some of Bensaharēn’s students and whatever Gnostic Assassins came with Danyūn. We should withdraw to a place of strength.”
“Can you get our people out of Avānweh?” Bensaharēn asked.
Maselane snorted. “My friend, I gave orders for our people to be packed and ready to go the moment the violence started.”
“I didn’t approve that.” Rosha’s hands were white-knuckled on the arms of her chair.
“No, my rahn, you didn’t,” Maselane replied. “But it was my job to see it done, and done it was. If we’re not obstructed, I can have our people on the way to Narsis within the hour.”
“I assume you will have Rahn-Roshana leave the city by other
, more secretive means?” Bensaharēn asked. Maselane nodded by way of response.
“Very well,” Rosha said. “Maselane, see our people safely away. I’ll remain with the rahns, Indris, and his friends. Bensaharēn, you, Mauntro, and Danyūn will remain with me.”
Everyone made to move, but then Neva spoke.
“There’s something I need to show Indris before he goes.” Mari eyed the woman, though said nothing.
Instead, it was Neva’s father who protested. “You’ll have to get somebody else, Neva,” Ajo said firmly. “These people, along with Corajidin’s trouble makers, are leaving my city.”
Neva gave an exasperated sigh. “There’s something happening at the ruins of the Mahsojhin. Indris is the only scholar who happens to be standing here.”
“Besides,” Indris said, “I don’t take orders from you, Ajo. As a Sēq—”
“You were a Sēq,” the Sky Lord’s voice was flat. “Now you’re a daimahjin with none of the Sēq’s so-called rights or protection. I want you gone until whatever it is between the Näsarat and the Erebus is settled. Neva? Yago? Would you please escort the rahns out of Avānweh. You can take that as an order or a request, I really don’t care. Just see to it.”
The Sky Lord’s expression was disappointed as he walked from the room, leaning heavily on his cane.
Neva gestured towards the door, her message clear, though her look said she would have it otherwise.
They were on their way to the Skydock, surrounded by armed and armoured Sky Knights and a handful of green-coated kherife, when Indris felt the bubble of pent-up energy burst. He stumbled, pain blossoming in his head like a sharp-edged flower.
Femensetri’s voice echoed in his mind shortly after.
“Indris!” she snapped. The edges to her fear were sharp in his head, leaving him reeling. “We need you!”
“What is it?” Mari asked, seeing him stagger. Shar frowned, a question in her eyes. Indris held up his hand for his friends to stop.
The Obsidian Heart Page 34
